Forward to Glory

by Brian Paul Bach

  When they came out of the Towers at sunset, Butterbugs tried to shepherd his co-star over to Kamala Nehru Park, as there was no one at present by the Old Woman Who Lived In A Shoe’s shoe. The view over the city was stunning. All his favorite landmarks, from Victoria Terminus to the Rajabai Tower, were looking pukka and dandy. Chowpatty Beach was bobbing with Ganesha beacons. Marine Drive was just donning its Maharani’s Necklace of lights.

  Perfect for a private chat.

  They were both still in their all-white costumes of humility. Gently, and with few words, Butterbugs gestured to the desired trysting site, fully expecting a vagary to be cleared, before a magnificent backdrop.

  But she turned aside and vanished in the gloaming. This was humbling for him, for he did not understand why they couldn’t get together for at least a few moments. However, experiences such as these were helping to restore him to his characteristic selflessness, and their qualities threatened to reach an almost saintly level. Not the best state of mind for a strolling player.

  Next, another exciting production of great ambition, with a shimmering of international location shoots. Due to her success in ‘Sacred Flame’, ProwlerCat rocketed to top billing as ‘Madame Blavatsky’ (Selznick), in her youngest incarnation. A compelling first scene, when Blavatsky as a girl discovers her mystic capabilities as she probes a curious portrait high up the wall of a manor house in Darkest Russia. Butterbugs was there, silent, watching behind the camera, transfixed.

  To the actor’s pleasure, he was in this one as a supporting player, though in several roles, to expand the mysticism. The first was as Sir Judgeship Ferrelberrington, the famous psychic profiler. The many exotic locales included rural Ukraine, St. Petersburg, Simla, Cooch Behar (noontime shadows in the Maharaja’s Palace, and all) and Roswell.

  It was in Simla, on a lane toward Chadwick Falls, that Butterbugs was able to approach his co-star at last. Filming ceased for chai-time. The air was fine, the sky was clear, and the High Himalayas were just there in the distance. In Victorian costume they came within thoughtful distance of each other, and arrived at a prospect overlooking Annandale, the world’s highest racecourse.

  ‘A fine view, withal,’ stated Butterbugs with palm stretched out, holding his top hat, still basically in character, lest his sensitive co-star become jarred by the abrupt transition.

  ‘It is,’ she said in Russian accent, following his actor’s lead.

  A race was in progress on the track, and its starting gun took pride of place over their preliminary conversation. Naturally, their attention was on the ponies. It was a close contest. The lead, Sugartar, was impetuous. Two rivals, Endearable and Khansammah, moved up on either side. Sugartar had to break free. The two actors watched from on high, totally absorbed.

  ‘See, how they avail themselves, as they ply their progress!’ marveled the frock-coated one.

  All chances for a tête-à-tête were suddenly shattered. Both people and horses came to the rescue. Sugartar had burst through the railing on the curve and gone over the edge. Not the first horse and rider to do so, and probably not the last.

  Later. ‘Chinghiz Khan’ (20th-Fox) came about and went before the giant Ultra-Panavision 70 cameras, in which ProwlerCat played Butterbugs’ Temujin’s princess. However, the picture was not a re-make of Dick Powell’s worthy ‘The Conqueror’ (RKO, 1956), with Duke Wayne, nor was it a retread of Henry Levin’s remarkable ‘Genghis Khan’ (Columbia, 1965). But some cast members revisited the saga: Bob Morley’s reprise portrayal of the Emperor was extremely welcomed by all. The booking was set up by Butterbugs during their meeting earlier, in Baltimore of all places.

  ‘You and only you must play the Emperor again in ‘Chinghiz!’’

  ‘Give me one good reason, dear boy?’ the great senior Morley questioned, vociferously.

  ‘Why, Xi Xu Zhar is directing, and he insists!’

  The resulting picture was a sensation.

  Butterbugs was elated when the director agreed to include Bob’s gloriously kitschy lines as less-than-subtle indicators of the Jin court’s utter effeteness, in view of the crude but capable invaders.

  Handing over a feathery fan to a lackey, the Emperor utters, ‘Take it; it grows heavy.’

  Regardless of these triumphs, there was no opportunity, no offering, and no route known, that would lead to any sort of conferral between Butterbugs and the new star in the heavens with which he shared screen time: ProwlerCat.

  None.

  67.

  Cool Pool

  Butterbugs approached the pool.

  Just across its electric-blue expanse, he could see – no doubt about it – ProwlerCat. Demure, yes. And little. Yes, she was little, chatting with birchbark liqueur-sipping Björk, whose swimsuit, constructed out of turkey baster bulbs, was causing no little media attention.

  Pineapple drink in hand, ProwlerCat was a model of restraint. Bikini revealed rather a lot, but she was not a flaunter. Any aura of fame was kept on low flame.

  To the left of him, Fat Chance Parker and his cronies. Billa Waigoaf, Ching Ting, Wabby Pleitkreub, et al. Brother Porter was conspicuously absent. Not another coup in the making! Sid Dome was even among them! To the right, Hyman Goth and his boring retinue of yakking yes-oids, including the odious Kritchurd (now with a new a.k.a.: ‘The Turd’) Puerile, who appeared particularly overweight, droopy, and ill today. He wouldn’t even look at Butterbugs. Memories of pillows by poolside haunted him so much that he hung his head and slunk away. His time as a ‘player’ was over.

  With the two routes on either side of the pool populated by such personalities, any progression thither would be compounded by tedium, at best. Butterbugs was neither snob nor prig, but ‘socializing’ his way though these & those mugs promised to be a task exceedingly grim. There was little recourse. The only mandate: plow.

  Fresh from location in full mauve tux outfit (his actual costume for his latest picture, ‘The Solid Platinum ’57 Imperial LeBaron’ (Columbia)), Butterbugs strode off the lip of the pool and became soused up to his pecs.

  Without losing his rhythm, he continued his stroll through the water, as not only the waves, but the inflated bozos riding them, parted to make way for his historic progress.

  At the first splish-splash, all digital and analog media devices documenting the party naturally turned their attention to this compelling scene. Thus was a legendary moment born, cast out into cyberspace, via Wenn~NN, Fuchs, GothNews, and numerous newsreels in cinemas across the world, and the print media ran extra evening editions, devoted to the magic moment.

  And as the big guy drew nigh to the object of his uninterrupted focus, standing tall on terra firma once again, irrigating the terrazzo’d terrace from rapidly deflating trousers, his non-colorfast garments leaving a trail of purple slime behind him, the paper-and-gelatin piping and chicken-comb basting dissolving in the chlorine solution, his manly physique becoming ever more exposed as a result, the cameras dollied in for the Big Close Up.

  Peveril Proctor was there, and, some assistant having thrust a mike in his hand, was broadcasting live worldwide. His commentary got to work with sexing-up the situation:

  ‘…A mating of eagles! Born out of adversity, no barrier too intimidating, the Noble One cleaves both land and sea to gain audience with his Princess…’

  And when all the other partiers had faded into the floral background, the two faces, in profile, dominated the known world.

  They did not come closer than mere centimeters, though. There was no meeting of lips. No flesh-on-flesh contact. How could there be? No motivation was in play except apparent one-sided attraction. Its drive must’ve been strong though, for why would someone stride so theatrically through adverse personalities and shape-altering water just to achieve this close-up, unconsummated by a kiss?

  There they were: Butterbugs and ProwlerCat, whom everyone had seen up on the screen, but not together in any other context. No wonder the mad media was tightening around them at this very moment, like a noose.<
br />
  Cameras recorded sweat jewels and sand granules.

  ‘And, you just know that tonight, America’s designers will be plotting their course around ProwlerCat’s fluffy underarms…,’ whispered Katie Couric, hovering behind her Samoan cameraman’s upward-aimed lens, pulsing for avant-garde news in order to scoop the best of them, as they pressed in from all angles, right behind.

  Harry Smith and Cherry von Plepp gained access to Butterbugs’ left shoulder blade, declaring its prominence, seen through the cheap costume, as being the ‘New Bulge Look’, with message-o-grams reaching Mindanao sweatshops within the minute.

  If it was one thing the two stars knew, despite a lack of rapport heretofore, it was that an escape plan was rather necessary about now. Improvisation is an actor’s tool, and it is in-play more often than an audience might think. Though big productions demand tight control on players, in spite of directors, techies, Old Atrocities, and pestering producers, actors can nevertheless exert considerable invention when coming up with bright ideas after everyone else is running on empty. After all, as the cameras roll and the sound is recording, whether on BKV Dhammapadha-Stock or wax cylinder, nobody’s talking things through, unless the picture is silent and the director has his megaphone. So the actor can wing it.

  ‘Into the breech!’ howled Butterbugs, all of a sudden.

  He dove into the bushes, and strangely, ProwlerCat picked up on the cue, springing with him in unison toward uncertain landings and fortunes.

  Bill Hearst VI (whose second middle name was actually ‘Cosmopolitan’), was more connected with the film world than his grandsire WR had ever been. As a scion of liberal bloggery and free-chronicling media everywhere, he’d turned Marion Davies’ restored Beach House into an Institute of Media Truth, with great reforming success. He cast a stern eye over the circus performers who passed as documentarians of this one moment in the history of a Hollywood day. He’d seen firsthand the two stars exit into the bolt-hole through the desiccated bushes, like shaggy iron filings drawn to a castaway toy magnet, and his heart was warmed. Whereas WR’s opportunism had always capitalized on human behavior of all kinds, Bill was particularly thrilled whenever he witnessed sincerity and honesty enacted in the Industry. He’d made it his life’s mission to be a defender of such noble sentiments, and at all cost.

  The slobbering paparazzi were ready to give chase and pounce, as more and grander Big Close-ups surely awaited. They just knew that down there in the shrubbery, a coup de theatre was possible, perhaps with porno options. Because anything was marketable through the proper channels, and the channels were flowing with bright red blood.

  Bill stood at the exit’s portal in a thou-shalt-not-pass pose.

  ‘Stay!’ Hearst held out his broad hand above the trash. ‘Leave them!’ he commanded. ‘Leave them be, I tell you!’

  With those minimal words, the attackers froze. Here was a true mogul, passing up the chance to get Big Fucking Press, and as a result, they became as bewildered children. Not one communications nerd dared to infiltrate or take a roundabout route to pierce the protective perimeter that the principled media titan threw around the young personages and their escape route. Pronounced sounds of frustration reverberated throughout their camp, but you just didn’t muck with an edict from WRH6. Why did he have to hang out at these events, anyway?

  As they laughingly tumbled down the slope, Butterbugs watered enough plant life with his purple reservoir of a suit to ensure good crops all through the next El Niño’s drought. She, apparently willing to go along for the ride, did not protest.

  They came to a stop amidst dryleaf and overhanging vine, a true ground where the real flora of Old California still chanced to make its ecosystem thrive.

  My, but was her bathing costume rolled into minimalist, even burlesque conformations, and her corrections followed, once they sat and reconnoitered for a moment or two.

  There was no real awkwardness, only a staging ground to settle down and get ready for the next setup. After all, they were actors wholly familiar with each other’s seasonings on the surface, and used to out-of-sequence procedures in the acts of life.

  But really, neither was so pretentious by nature. They were, to risk using a pretentious label, real people, not just programmable, scriptable players in front of a flicker-box. Feelings were in play, but feelings about to be liberated by force of circumstance. Their situation had placed them down and away from a more stagey set, and they were not only backstage, but below the stage, as well.

  Why not be real? Really real?

  Butterbugs led off.

  ‘Now tell me, pretty girl, I really have to know, what were the circumstances of our first meeting? Our alleged first meeting, that is.’

  ProwlerCat regarded him with almost swooning affection. Down here in the dry leaves, under the shrubs, beyond shotgun lenses and Homeland Insecurity-styled microphone range, here was her frequent co-star, in luridly-comic costume, soaked, already itchy with discomfort.

  ‘Please, dear. Please believe me. Please relieve me!’ he said, in non-pleading tones.

  His line, probably from some reality TV show, was meant to cajole.

  Here was she, in the skimpiest of bikinis, so easily slipped off and rolled into strings, beside him. He was of her same era, an equal, with just as much reason to come clean as she had.

  She unzipped him, made him hard, and facilitated easy entrance without cue, blocking, or direction.

  You see, actors really can think for themselves.

  In mutual climax, after so much exertion that Butterbugs’ person became nearly dry (though his output saturated her), the atmosphere of generated, earned ecstasy bloomed.

  As the two lay back in the leaves, they realized that the slope they occupied had high-level views of many a mogul’s palazzo below.

  He helped her back into her dainty swimwear, and modesty was re-achieved, lest prying was successful.

  They breathed deeply, as the LA air was salubrious up here.

  ‘Well now!’ said ProwlerCat at last, in a tone of voice far more warm and revealing than he had ever heard. ‘Just like Simla. But without the racecourse, thank heavens.’

  ‘Indeed,’ replied Butterbugs. Then, taking a look askance at her, repeated, ‘Indeed!’

  They both projected relief.

  ‘Oh, ProwlerCat, that was wondrous!’

  ‘Me too! I mean, for me, too!’

  ‘Et in Arcadia Ego!’

  ‘Yes, Mr. Waugh!’

  ‘It is fitting, no?’

  ‘Now it’s my turn to say ‘indeed’.’ ProwlerCat was a whole different person.

  ‘Your instincts – amazing.’ Maybe he was, too.

  ‘Well, they are based on survival.’

  ‘The best of which, is to –’

  ‘To enhance survival!’

  ‘To make it the best there is.’

  ‘M-hmm. But I guess I’d best answer your inquiry.’

  ‘My inquiry?’

  ‘Certainly. The thing you’ve been wanting to ask, over pretty near three pictures now, and I don’t know how many thousands of miles.’

  ‘I remember! But I’d almost given up.’

  ‘So anyway, to the reply. I guess I can make it, now that the tables are turned, the roles reversed.’

  ‘Turned? Reversed? How so?’

  ‘Just a minute.’

  She quickly peeled out of her skimpy attire and flipped over on her side, so that her trim but curvy bottom was aimed at him.

  Her buttocks divide: Hokusai could have woodcut it! Chassériau would have made sure it ended up in the Louvre!

  ‘Nice view! But what’s the deal?’

  ‘Come about and regard me!’

  He did and saw her plaintive face of surpassing fairness, one cheek on Earth, the other skyward, with a silent tear running down it. If it was only finger-dipped saliva, pasted on for the effect of the moment, it didn’t matter. What was important was that he noticed its sheen.

  ‘Oh, sweet cr
eature! I have hurt you!’

  ‘Ah, Butterbugs! I am nude, you are clothed!’

  ‘Here, take my apparel!’

  ‘Don’t you remember? Don’t you remember? But how could you! You were merely an empty vessel of a man! I found you, lying there, in that dreary bed, a bed of dirt and rubbish, seemingly dead to the world! I clothed you. I fed you. I left you. It was all done within three quarters of an hour, but I have never forgotten. Your face at that time has never left me. And here, now, it is back, fully developed, fully alive, and loving!’

  ‘If I have failed to realize, I am truly sorry. But I am overwhelmed! I marvel at the wonder of it all. That you were there. You saved me. I can only thank you, with all my gratefulness, my protection, and my love. I can’t believe it! I am wholly flabbergasted. What a great feeling!’

  ‘I feel the same things. Life! It is uncanny, a blessing, a blessing come true. I feel like I really am Madam Blavatsky!’

  ‘Insightful! True! Only you are far more attractive, sweet, and sexy!’

  ‘I know!’ she giggled.

  Lots of kissing now, with feeling-up and general celebration. Butterbugs then helped ProwlerCat on with her now-tousled bikini for the umpteenth time.

  ‘I love how you dress me!’ said ProwlerCat.

  Relaxing now, Butterbugs popped the one remaining question.

  ‘Tell me, cat who prowls, why, why-ever did you wait to reveal your identity to me?’

  She laughed.

  ‘Well, it’s really very simple. I didn’t want to embarrass you. The big star, lying in a shrubbery bed in a derelict neighborhood, naked and abandoned. What would people think?’

  Now they both laughed.

  ‘Well, probably they’d identify with me. I think people feel that way, every day!’

  ‘Plus, I didn’t want to tell you until I had evened the score: you clothed – me unclothed.’